The Oracles' Games

Chapter 2

Ephorus leaned back in his chair while the metalworkers' hammers rang rhythmically through the high windows of his chamber. He held the papyrus at arm's length, squinting at the blurred figures until they resolved into letters, deaf to the merchants' morning calls and the murmurs of slave women drifting up from the kitchen below.

"How much are we short?" he eventurally asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and squeezing his eyes shut.

"About thirty talents," Theo replied from the other side of the large desk.

"Thirty..." He sighed and placed the papyrus back on the desk. Thirty talents was enough to purchase a sizable naval fleet. Such a sum couldn't simply be conjured from thin air.

This was the third year of his fourth term as Prytanis—leader of Corinth's State Council—and should have been his last, but the war had forced an extension. This was a natural and expected decision, give that his election, or even his running in the first place, had been orchestrated with the looming conflict in mind.

By the time the last election took place, King Xerxes of Persia had already begun assembling an immense invading force against Greece, and the most powerful among the elders of Corinth showed rare foresight in this crisis. They recognized the need for experienced leadership that would command respect across all factions in the coming storm, so had the Gerousia nominate Ephorus—not only for his multiple terms as Prytanis but for his reputation for even-handed judgment that commanded respect across all factions.

The plan worked as well as anyone could have hoped. Ephorus was not only elected, but he also had served, in his own view, far better than any alternative could have through the crises. Still, nothing in his long years of service had prepared him for the brutality of these past months. The final pleas from the leaders of the fallen poleis in Boeotia and Phocis still haunted him. They had begged Corinth to save their people, only to meet brutal ends themselves—some executed by the invaders, others swallowed by the chaos of war. He couldn't help but wonder if that same fate awaited him.

It felt like a slow death in battle—first the broken fingers forcing you to switch hands, then the gut wounds bleeding freely, the punctured lung, the severed legs, each bringing fresh certainty of doom. He'd never felt the end of the world so close, so imminent.

Yet somehow, the world did not end—at least for now. Though broken, it continued to turn. It had to. The people, both his and theirs, needed the machinery of the polis to continue functioning, to keep life flowing through what remained of their wounded state. And so here he sat, poring over treasury scrolls, calculating war debts and dwindling reserves with hands that still shook from writing condolence letters to the families of the fallen. The mundane absurdity of it felt rather strange—tallying figures while the ashes of their neighbors still smoldered. But perhaps this was how civilization endured: one careful calculation at a time, even as the heart ached. He forced his focus back to the papyrus before him.

The numbers before him told a grim story. Trade—their lifeblood—had withered under Persian threats from the east. Six months of closed eastern sea routes had left the city's mounting expenses unchecked. The war had devoured their resources. Not only had Corinth bled gold into all three Coalition campaigns, but as the Coalition's heart, they'd housed and fed an endless stream of delegates. The Isthmus wall had swallowed fortunes of its own. Then came the final blow - after Thermopylae fell, refugees flooded their streets in ever-growing waves. Even their triumph at Salamis couldn't stem the tide of people or the drain on their treasury. In his three decades of political life, he had never seen Corinth's might tested like this - though he supposed it was still preferable to the end of the world.

"I presume we have already depleted the coffers of our fellow Corinthians?" Ephorus looked up wearily, studying the younger man across the desk.

Theo's head dipped in a measured nod. "Most have been rather generous, to be fair. Many are also aiding refugees as we speak."